But see you the Crown, how it waves in the air, The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; I once was persuaded a venture to make; 'Life's cares they are comforts'--a maxim laid [black gown; down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the And faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. A stanza added in a Mason Lodge. Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May ev'ry true brother of the compass and square Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. SONG OF DEATH. "The circumstance,' says Burns, 'that gave rise to the following ve ses, was looking over, with a musical friend, M'Donald's Cc lection of Highland airs. I was struck with one, entitled "Cran an Aoig," or "The song of death," to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas.' Scene-A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening. The wou ded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the song. ARE WELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun! arewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender Our race of existence is run! & Young's Night Thoughts, [ties, Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave! Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou for the brave! Thou strik'st the poor peasant-he sinks in the Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name: [dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the field of proud honour-our swords in our Our king and our country to save-- [hands, While victory shines on life's last ebbing sandsOh! who would not die with the brave? OUT-OVER THE FORTH, &c. The second of the following verses was first published by Currie, the first by Cromek. United, they make an exquisite little song. OUT-OVER the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its Highlands to me? For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, BY YON CASTLE WA', &c. [be, Written in imitation of an old Jacobite song, of which the fol lowing are two lines My lord's lost his land, and my lady her name, By yon castle wa', at the close o' the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey; And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame- It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame— m THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. When Prince Charles Stuart saw that utter ruin had fallen on all those who loved him and fought for nim-that the axe and the cord were busy with their persons, and that their wives and children were driven desolate, he is supposed by Burns to have given utterance to his feelings in this Lament.'-Allan Cunningham. Tune.-Captain O' Kaine. morning, THE small birds rejoice. in the green leaves returning; [vale; The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the [dale : And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by [singing, No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills, and his right are these [find none. Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can care? valleys, Earth. / Lost. m Children. But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I inourn; Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, Alas! can I make you no sweeter return? THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE, &c. 'Love of country and domestic affection have combined to endear this song to every bosom. It was written in honour of Mrs. Burns.-Ailan Cunningham. Tune.-Humours of Glen. THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan," Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom: Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen: For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 'Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they? the haunt o' the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun tains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his moun tains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. n Fern. CALEDONIA. This excellent national song was first published by Dr. Currie. It has never become popular, however. The words and the tune are by no means a very suitable pair. Tune.-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. IHERE was once a day, but old Time then was young, That brave Čaledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore'Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort; The Romans. P The Saxons, |